


jamón, giraffes, and unconventional wooing

by polkadot



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4545522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benoît's knee felt like shit, and his mood was blacker than black. Luckily Stan made a practice of ignoring all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	jamón, giraffes, and unconventional wooing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a ficlet challenge on FFA, for the prompt "Ship of your choice. Player X is hurt and has to withdraw from an important match. Player Y comforts them."
> 
> This is set in the future (this year's US Open), and I certainly hope Benoît doesn't have any problems with his knee there.

The afternoon Benoît had to pull out of his third-round match against Mayer – a winnable match, a very winnable match, and then he would have been in the fourth round of the fucking US fucking Open, after two years fighting his way back up through the rankings – he sprawled on his back on a bleak hotel bed and stared, scowling, at the ceiling. If he hadn’t already kicked the sheets to the floor (with his good leg, the one minus the shitty knee), he would have kicked them again now. 

The door opened. Benoît didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling stain that looked a little like a giraffe, if you squinted. “Took your time.”

“Thought I’d give you a chance to sulk a bit first,” Stan said, his voice irritatingly calm. 

That morning, Stan had whistled in the bathroom as he coaxed his hair into being perfectly imperfect. Benoît, observing cuttingly that it was far too early in the morning for _Le Chant Des Sirènes_ , had pulled a pillow over his head and tried to snuggle down into the impression of Stan’s body, warm under the sheets. Living with a morning person when you were very much _not_ a morning person was a trial at the best of times. 

With Benoît’s bad knee throbbing and his competitive spirit denied, this was not the best of times.

Rudely, Stan ignored the resolute way Benoît was still scowling at the ceiling, and simply lay down next to him on the stripped bed. He smelled like the outdoors, like humidity and the New York air, but above all of … ham?

Benoît withstood his curiosity as long as he could. He might’ve tried to keep his silence longer, but there had been that time where they’d had that argument and hadn’t spoken for three days, and Stan hadn’t cracked even a little. Benoît had had to eventually ‘accidentally’ say Stan’s name during sex to break the stalemate and save everybody’s face, or else Stan would’ve probably held out forever. Competitive bastard.

(Or perhaps it had something to do with the way Stan talked without saying a word. A cup of coffee, delivered with a press of the hand and a smile; an absentminded kiss on the side of the neck as he read over Benoît’s shoulder, gentle press of lips that left Benoît’s skin tingling; the soft light in his eyes when he realized Benoît had come into the locker room. Who needed words?)

Stan was warm behind him, warm and solid and far too delectable. Benoît succumbed. “Why do you smell like ham?” he asked, turning on his side and propping himself up on an elbow.

Stan’s eyes smiled, even as his mouth stayed solemn. “I heard,” he said, his hand finding Benoît’s in the space between their chests, “that there was a shop in the city that sells real _jamón_.”

“No,” Benoît said, unbelievingly.

“Apparently it’s a closely-kept secret in the Armada. I had to promise Lopez the first set next time we played before he’d give me the address.”

“Tell me,” Benoît breathed.

“Enough for even your appetite,” Stan said, eyes laughing, and bent to kiss him on the nose. 

His beard tickled, and Benoît wrinkled his nose, bringing their entwined hands up to push at Stan’s chest. “Get off me, you moose.”

“Moose, am I?” Stan asked, and tussled him back into the pillows, never bumping his bad knee. They ended up a breath apart, and Benoît’s hand tightened on Stan’s bicep, not trying to push him off.

Later he would be upset again, no doubt. Later he would listen to gloomy music, and feel sorry for himself, and compose vulgarly profane odes to his fucking piece of shit knee, because it could have been the fourth fucking round of the US Open, and his boyfriend might have two Slams, but Benoît couldn’t afford to give away chances like this. 

But for the moment his black mood had simmered down, shelved for later. How could he feel sorry for himself with Stan in his bed – in his arms – smelling of the _jamón_ that must be in the bags he’d dropped just inside the door, and tasting of mint toothpaste?

“If the _jamón_ isn’t enough,” Stan said, muffled against Benoît’s jaw, “we can order in pizza.”

“You know how to woo a man,” Benoît said, and tightened his hand in Stan’s hair.

Stan’s lips moved against Benoît’s skin, and Benoît could feel the smile, even before he heard it in Stan’s voice. “I know how to woo _you_ , anyway.”

“Are you implying that I eat too much?” Benoît said in mock outrage, digging toes into Stan’s leg until Stan yelped and rolled away.

“I’m implying that I know you, asshole,” Stan said, crinkles around his eyes, lying on his back amid the pillows and looking for all the world like dinner. 

Perhaps tomorrow when Stan woke Benoît up by whistling in the bathroom, Benoît would push him into the shower and find his mouth a better occupation. Perhaps tomorrow, when Stan was playing his fourth-round match and Benoît was relegated to sitting in the box and trying to keep his ass from falling asleep, he would push away his own gloom by living and dying with every backhand down the line.

Yes, his knee was shit. Yes, he was fucking pissed about it.

But dealing with a shit knee and the disappointment of frustrated dreams was made easier when you had a Stan.

“Bring me some _jamón_ , then,” Benoît said majestically. “I’m far too injured to get up myself.”

“Yes, your worshipfulness,” Stan said, and leaned in to kiss him before rolling out of bed and padding off towards the bags.

Benoît rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling giraffe again, his mouth twitching upwards.


End file.
